


everything hurt and nothing was beautiful

by itstimetoscream



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Basically it's about Quackity's second canon death, Blood and Gore, Dream Team SMP Spoilers, Fainting, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Night Terrors, No beta we die like Alex Quackity, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Quackity has severe PTSD from Technoblade, Trauma, We don't do happiness here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:28:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28497582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itstimetoscream/pseuds/itstimetoscream
Summary: In which Quackity suffers severe PTSD from his second canon death at the hands of a certain pig.The title is a parody off of the line "Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt" from Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five
Kudos: 22





	everything hurt and nothing was beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> If any of the CCs involved express discomfort at fanfiction written about them I will take this down. Likewise if this is found to be disrespectful towards any actual victims of trauma or PTSD. I figured that creative liberties could be taken because this is just angsty fiction about Dramatic Block Men, but if it's legitimately harmful to anyone I will remove it, don't worry.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy this Extreme Angst(TM) that I wrote all in one go and decided to impulsively post lol, also sorry in advance because it's pretty dark

For the fifth time in a week, Quackity woke up screaming. You’d think he’d be used to it by now, the night terrors and their accompanying panic attacks, but each night always seemed to bring fresh resurgences of fear to the forefront of his mind.

He couldn’t get that accursed image of the Final Control Room out of his head. He had gone into that fight so confidently, hadn’t he? So certain that he could bring down a weakened and weaponless Technoblade. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Techno’s maniacal grin swum to the forefront of his mind, sharp tusks gleaming in the torchlight as he hefted aloft a damaged pickaxe. _I have a pickaxe, and I’ll put it through your teeth_ , he had snarled. Quackity should have heeded his warning.

As the flashback continued, it became ever more vivid. Soon, Quackity could hardly tell reality from fantasy, floundering in a nightmare that had followed him from his dreams into the waking world. His heart rate began to accelerate, racing beneath a chest that had started heaving for breath. When had that happened? Quackity didn’t know. All that he knew now was the swinging arc of Techno’s pick as it plunged down towards him. All he could do was attempt to dodge, hoping his armour would shield any impacts as he desperately fought back, flailing his axe.

Now had come the most devastating part of the memory. The part that caused Quackity to wake screaming time and time again from already restless sleep. It played out before his eyes in what seemed to be excruciatingly slow motion. However hard he tried to escape, to block out the flashbacks, he knew that it was a futile effort. No matter what, Techno would have his revenge. The pickaxe swung a final time, deadly in its accuracy. This final hit struck true, piercing flesh, sinew, and bone alike as it made its dramatic entrance into Quackity’s jaw. Pain flashed, sharp and lancing, through his jaw as it remembered the sensation. He swore he could feel the individual teeth break free as his jaw shattered into hundreds of white-hot fragments.

_It’s not real_ , he told himself in desperation. _None of this is real, it’s a memory, snap out of it, wake up, WAKE UP_ , but there was nothing to be done. The flashback had gone too far to stop, and now he would simply have to endure. Phantom pain from the blow continued to race up and down his face, setting it alight in ever increasing waves of agony. Then came the new flash of pain caused by Techno ripping the pick from where it had buried itself. He hadn’t removed it gently. There was no reason for him to.

The removal of the pickaxe led, as the removals of most weapons do, to renewed anguish and a sharp increase in blood loss. Quackity almost expected to feel the warm, sluggish flow of blood down his neck and onto his chest that had originally accompanied the pickaxe’s removal. He knew that it had been a lot of blood. He had even seen it himself, dried up and caking after he had gathered enough courage to go back to the site of his second death. No one had bothered to clean it up. It wasn’t like the Final Control Room was a popular tourist destination anyway.

Suddenly, the agonizing pain faded away. Quackity grimaced. The only reason that the pain had left, he knew, was because he hadn’t been conscious for the rest of the event. He had passed out from blood loss, and had died soon afterwards. A pickaxe to the head can do that to you. And now he was down another life. If he died again, that was it.

He put his head in his hands, but his heart was still beating too quickly to grant him any true peace. He gasped for air weakly, choking back the sobs that he knew were coming. Just like last night, and the one before. He was haunted, he thought bitterly. Haunted by the ghost of himself. He didn’t know what to do about that. So he did the only thing he could think of, and curled into the tightest ball imaginable, taking care to avoid putting too much pressure on the right side of his jaw. Then, and only them, did the tears begin to fall.

* * *

After what could have been hours, or perhaps only minutes, Quackity felt like he could finally breathe with some regularity. Bracing himself, he attempted to stand, to dry his puffy eyes and drink some water, or _something_. There had to be something that he could do to dull the emotional anguish, right? Unsteady steps led him towards the bathroom of his small apartment. There were tissues there, he knew, and a cup, and the tap for some water. He just had to get there first. Reaching the bathroom, Quackity cautiously pushed open the door-- and froze in his tracks.

Looking back at him, through the mirror, was a dead man. More specifically, a dead _him_ , or at least some twisted version of it. Milky, soulless eyes gazed back into his own, blood caked onto their eyelashes. And the pickaxe was there, right through his right cheek, straight into his jaw. Blood tracked rivulets down his face, onto the already dirty butcher’s apron that he had worn in anticipation for Techno’s execution. Far, far too much blood. As he looked on in horror, Mirror Quackity grinned a sickly smile and lifted one unnaturally pale hand up to the smooth handle of the pickaxe. Quackity could see the gaps in his mouth where he knew teeth should have been, knocked out by Techno’s brutal swing. He shuddered as Mirror Quackity pulled on the handle of the pick, as he met the resistance in his cheek and pulled, harder and harder, ripping the bloodied instrument out of his own face. He saw the hole in his face, the tattered flesh and twisted sinew that had been irreparably damaged, the jagged shards of bone poking out of the wound. _This isn’t real_ , he told himself hurriedly, desperately. _This is your imagination, it’s not real, it can’t hurt you_ … Then he felt nothing more, passed out cold on the floor of his bathroom. He wouldn’t wake until the morning.


End file.
